James Maxted 03 The Ends of the Earth

by Robert Goddard

  Appleby smiled wearily. ‘I was chosen and I chose Max because our loyalty’s been tested in the fire. The irony is – and it’s quite some irony, considering your opinion of me and mine of you – that your loyalty’s been tested too.’

  ‘We need your help,’ said Max simply, drawing a look of some astonishment from Brigham.

  ‘We do,’ Appleby confirmed with a sigh. ‘You’re still officially on leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For how much longer?’

  ‘It could be months. There’ll be nothing up and running here before the autumn.’

  ‘Then no one would miss you while you did some work for me, would they?’

  ‘Possibly not. But—’

  ‘Your country needs you, Brigham. As never before.’

  ‘You’re the most confounded fellow, Appleby, you really are. Is what he says true, James?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Max. ‘It is.’

  ‘I’d need some verification.’ Brigham looked doubtfully at Appleby.

  ‘There’ll be no verification. You’re either with us or not.’

  ‘With you in what?’

  ‘Disagreeable business that needs to be done – and that no one else can do.’

  ‘Hardly an enticing prospect.’

  ‘But a chance for you to earn that generous salary HMG has been paying you all these years.’ Appleby looked Brigham in the eye. ‘What’s it to be?’

  WHEN IT CAME down to it, Brigham seemed disappointed that initially nothing was required of him beyond a vow of silence. ‘Lemmer thinks I’m dead,’ Max explained. ‘He must go on thinking that as long as possible.’

  ‘My lips are sealed, my boy.’ It was touching, in its way, to see how eager Brigham was to protect Max. It was also infuriating, since Max had no wish to lend credence to Brigham’s conviction that he was his father by exploiting it. But exploit it he had to.

  ‘We’ll leave you to your house-hunting for the present,’ said Appleby. ‘I’d like you to stay in Geneva until you hear from me again.’

  ‘Very well. I’m putting up at the Beau Rivage.’

  ‘I won’t keep you waiting long.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘East.’

  ‘Is that all you’re going to tell me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it and not before. That’ll be in your best interests as well as ours.’

  ‘There’s something in your tone I’m never going to grow fond of, Appleby.’

  ‘But you’ll play your part?’

  ‘Whatever it is, yes.’ Brigham was looking at Max when he added, ‘You can count on me.’

  Max did not conceal his doubts about the wisdom of enlisting Brigham in their cause. He could not deny the logic of the decision, however, and it was obvious Appleby derived no pleasure from it. ‘Adversity acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’ he remarked as their train headed out along the shore of Lake Geneva.

  ‘It’s misery, not adversity.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.” The Tempest, I believe. Shakespeare.’

  ‘I know who wrote The Tempest, thank you.’ Appleby chewed irritably on the stem of his pipe. ‘He obviously never tried his hand at intelligence work.’

  ‘No. That was Marlowe. It got him killed.’

  ‘What a ray of sunshine you are, Max.’

  Max shrugged. ‘I try to be.’

  The train stopped at Rolle before it reached Lausanne. As it slowed on its approach to the station, it passed an imposing building set in its own grounds, part of which had been turned over to sports pitches. On one of them two teams of boys were engaged in an energetic game of hockey.

  ‘Le Rosey, I assume,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Looks like it. Just think, Horace, Lemmer’s son could be in our sight at this very moment.’

  ‘Yes. I’d have him down as a games-player.’

  ‘It’s not his fault Lemmer’s his father.’

  ‘There are many things we suffer for that aren’t our fault.’

  ‘He won’t come to any harm at our hands, will he?’

  ‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ Appleby looked across at Max. ‘No. Don’t answer that. I’d rather not know.’

  From the Gare Centrale in Lausanne they took the funicular down to Ouchy, a genteel lakeside resort, and booked into the Hotel Meurice. A swift scan of the register as they signed it in the names of Greaves and Brown revealed no other arrivals that day. Dombreux was not there.

  Appleby remained sceptical about Dombreux’s intentions, but acknowledged he could not afford to betray Max. ‘His hands are tied, I’m glad to say.’ There remained the possibility he had despatched Max to Lausanne on a fool’s errand, but Appleby intended to test the possibility without delay.

  They passed much of the afternoon loitering in a café near the entrance to the offices of Marcel Dulière, notaire, at the southern end of the Avenue d’Ouchy, facing the lakeside promenades. Decorative stained glass and a wide marble staircase visible within suggested a prosperous practice, which the dowagers of Lausanne, pottering past in the sunshine in impressive quantity, went some way to explaining. The insulation of Switzerland from the convulsions of the war hung complacently in the spring-scented air.

  At length, a man looking very much as Max imagined a Swiss lawyer would look – portly, fussy and morning-suited, with a trimmed moustache and a weathered briefcase – exited the building. A passer-by helpfully greeted him with a ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Dulière,’ to remove any doubt in the matter.

  ‘What are you planning to do, Horace?’ Max asked as Dulière bustled off towards the funicular station.

  ‘Nothing until tonight.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘An office call, without an appointment.’

  The evening elapsed with no sign of Dombreux. Max acknowledged, first to himself, then to Appleby, that he was not going to arrive. As to why, they agreed there was nothing to be gained by trying to guess.

  There was a small courtyard behind the building housing Dulière’s office. At gone midnight in tranquil Ouchy, silence and solitude were nowhere more abundant. Appleby entered the premises via a rear door after a masterful display of lock-picking, leaving Max on guard.

  Aside from a couple of flashes of torchlight in windows overlooking the yard, Max saw nothing that could alert anyone to Appleby’s presence. And there was no one about to be alerted anyway. Guard duty was chilly but uneventful.

  Appleby emerged after half an hour or so, locking the door carefully behind him. ‘We can go,’ he murmured. They headed back to their hotel, where they treated the night porter to a tale of losing their way while returning from a late evening stroll. Then they adjourned to Appleby’s room.

  ‘You could have had a successful career as a burglar, you know, Horace,’ said Max as he accepted a glass of whisky.

  ‘I learnt from a master. Charlie Leggatt was burgling the homes of wealthy Londoners for most of the old Queen’s reign. I felt his collar several times in my early days with the Met. Some of his victims didn’t even realize they’d been robbed, he was that careful. Breaking and entering without breaking was his forte.’

  ‘So, Dulière won’t know anyone’s been through his files?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘And what did you learn?’

  ‘Enough to confirm Dombreux’s story – as far as it can be confirmed. Dulière has a file on Eugen Hanckel, a pupil at l’Institut Le Rosey, Rolle. Date of birth twenty-fifth of February, 1904. The school’s fees – and Dulière’s – are paid through a lawyer in Munich. There’s no information about the boy’s parentage. In fact, beyond bills submitted and settled, there’s no correspondence at all other than letters between the headmaster and Dulière, who’s the school’s only point of reference regarding the boy. That was laid down when he was enrolled. And he’s a permanent boarder. “Compris les vacances scolaires.” School hol
idays included.’

  ‘Surely Lemmer wants to see him from time to time.’

  ‘He probably arranges visits by telephone. The dearth of documentation is telling in its own right. Eugen Hanckel is no ordinary schoolboy. That’s clear.’

  ‘You believe he’s Lemmer’s son?’

  Appleby considered the question over a long swallow of Scotch. Then said: ‘Yes. I do.’

  THEY BREAKFASTED LATER than most of the Meurice’s guests. Appleby had left Max wondering what their next move would be. He announced it over coffee and toast. ‘A trip on the lake, Max, before we go our separate ways. I’ve made some inquiries. An Italian liner, the Perla, sails from Genoa for Shanghai next Wednesday. You’ll be able to find a passage from there to Japan. So, it’s Genoa for you. And the sooner the better. We should be seen together as little as possible.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Groundwork.’

  ‘Beginning with a pleasure cruise?’

  ‘Who said anything about pleasure?’

  The boat trip Appleby had in mind was a steamer crossing to Evian-les-Bains, on the French side of the lake. The weather was cool and cloudy, with specks of rain. Takers for the trip were few. And even fewer ventured on to the open deck to watch Lausanne receding behind them as they drew away. Max and Appleby had the stern rail to themselves.

  ‘I’m going to base the operation in Evian,’ Appleby explained between puffs on his pipe. ‘If anything goes wrong, the French will be more accommodating than the Swiss. The Deuxième Bureau wants Lemmer just as badly as we do. I’ll recruit a local boatman. And whoever else I think I’ll need.’

  ‘You intend to take the boy to France?’

  ‘I do. And hold him there while you present Lemmer with our terms.’

  ‘The key to the code of the Grey File?’

  ‘Exactly. The names of all his spies, checked and verified before we release the boy. After that I doubt the Japanese will have much use for Lemmer. But he can stay there if he wants.’

  ‘How do you propose to capture the boy?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure yet. Leave me to worry about that. It’ll be best you don’t know the details. Rest assured I’ll be ready to strike when you give me the word. I’ll rent a box at the post office in Evian. Cable me there when you’re ready to move. I’m relying on you to judge the moment, Max. I’ll be on hand here from late June waiting to hear from you.’

  ‘What will you ask Brigham to do?’

  ‘Take the lease on a house near Evian where we can keep the boy. And anything else I think he’s suitable for.’

  ‘How will you convince Lemmer we have his son?’

  ‘Dulière will do that for us.’

  ‘Managing this when we’re thousands of miles apart isn’t going to be easy, Horace.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. But it’s our best chance of defeating Lemmer, so it has to be done.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘Lemmer? Yes. Once. If you can call it a meeting. One of his underlings tried to recruit me for his network. We met at a café in The Hague. October 1915, it would have been. His name was Bakker. He lured me there with an offer of information on German shipping movements out of Zeebrugge. But that wasn’t what he had to offer me at all. I turned him down, of course. It was only later I realized Lemmer had been at another table in the café, watching the whole thing. I barely noticed him.’

  ‘This would have been shortly after the Battle of Loos, yes?’

  Appleby glanced at Max suspiciously. His son had been killed at Loos, as he had once divulged in a sentimental moment. Max wondered if Lemmer had known that and chosen to approach Appleby when grief might have weakened his defences.

  ‘Is Bakker still active?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Natural causes?’

  ‘An accident. In the docks at Rotterdam.’ A distant look came into Appleby’s eyes. ‘Dangerous places, docks.’

  All was quiet in Evian-les-Bains. They walked from the jetty past imposing buildings dedicated to its spa town economy: Palais Lumière, Theatre, Casino. At the post office, Appleby took a three-month rental on a box. Their next call was a house agent, where Appleby set out his – officially, Brigham’s – requirement for a small, secluded dwelling near but not in the town. The gentle implication that money was no object had an electrifying effect on the agent, who expressed his confidence that several possibilities would be available for viewing within days. Would the gentlemen be taking the waters while they were in Evian? Appleby assured him they would.

  Lunch at the Grand Hotel and a train ride west to Thonon-les-Bains was what actually followed, with Appleby’s attention switching between a map he had bought and the topography of the lakeside. They took a late afternoon steamer back to Lausanne from Thonon.

  ‘Everything falling into place, Horace?’ Max asked as they sat this time in the warmth of the passenger cabin.

  Appleby nodded. ‘Success in something like this turns on logistics.’ He lowered his voice confidentially, though there was no one within earshot. ‘Remember that when you’re in Japan, Max. Don’t rush in. Prepare the ground. Assess the possibilities. And have an escape route in place. You may need one.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do. Though whether you’d use it if the need arose …’

  ‘I’m certainly not going all that way just to turn tail and run for it at the first sign of trouble.’

  Appleby sighed and shook his head despairingly. ‘If you live to be my age, Max, you’ll understand not every risk is worth taking.’

  ‘How d’you tell the difference between those that are and those that aren’t?’

  ‘Experience.’

  ‘Well, I’ll come back with plenty of that, I imagine.’

  Neither of them added the obvious corollary: if he came back.

  Max had held out the unspoken hope that Dombreux might still put in an appearance. But the lapse of another day with neither word nor sign of him told its own story. He was not coming. As Appleby made it clear he had all along suspected would be the case.

  ‘Fortunately,’ he added, ‘he’s already given us something far more valuable than his presence.’

  They parted the following morning with a handshake and a growled ‘Good hunting’ on Appleby’s part in the ticket hall of Lausanne’s Gare Centrale. Appleby was heading for Geneva, to confer with Brigham; Max for Milan and thence Genoa – and Japan.

  THE VOYAGE EAST was suspended animation for Max. He existed in a condition of enforced idleness, overlain by the uncertainty of what awaited him at journey’s end. He largely shunned shipboard society, aside from a few late-night poker games, which left him, rather to his surprise, marginally in profit. He several times yielded to temptation in the attractive form of an unhappily married woman who joined the ship at Port Said and left it at Colombo to be reunited with her husband. He dealt deftly with a few other minor difficulties. He read his way assiduously through the ship’s library of detective novels. And he paid regular visits to the ship’s gymnasium, overseen by the prodigiously muscular Massimo, whose advances he courteously declined.

  All did not go smoothly, however. The Perla limped into Singapore several days behind schedule on half-power, thanks to mechanical problems which it took several more days to solve. They eventually reached Shanghai over a week late.

  It was from a newspaper bought within minutes of leaving the ship that Max learnt of the final signing of the peace treaty amid much ceremony at Versailles on June 28 – and of the scuttling of the German High Seas Fleet at Scapa Flow a week before. All the struggles and intrigues in Paris had led at last to signatures on a piece of paper that would shape the post-war world, for good or bad. While somewhere in Scotland – or England – Lothar Schmidt, former captain of the SMS Herzog, one of the ships listed as sunk, was contemplating that world as a prisoner of war, no doubt satisfied he had done his patrioti
c duty.

  But Max had more immediate issues to worry about. He was concerned Morahan and his crew would already be in Yokohama, waiting for him. There was nothing he could do but press on.

  It was the concièrge of the Astor House Hotel who advised him that the quickest way to reach Yokohama was to take a berth on one of the many cargo ships heading for Japan, disembark at Nagasaki and travel on from there by train.

  So it was that early in the morning of Saturday 5th July 1919 Max returned to the country of his birth: the homecoming of a stranger, standing alone on the small passenger deck of the merchantman Groundsel as it nosed into Nagasaki harbour. He looked at the houses and the hills of an alien land and felt relief mixed with exhilaration. The waiting was very nearly over.

  Max saw more of Japan than he might have wished over the next three days. He took a slow train across the island of Kyushu to the port of Moji, then a ferry to Shimonoseki on the main island of Honshu and an overnight train from there to Kyoto.

  Steam-bath heat prevailed by day and night. The overnight train was crammed with travellers. Max had to share a sleeping compartment with a garrulous businessman who spoke not a word of English. The corridor seemed the coolest part of the train and Max spent a good deal of time standing in it, gazing out at the passing scenery: forested hills and mountains; rice-fields; bamboo groves; glimpses of the Inland Sea, studded with islands; pagodas; temples; huddled townships of wood-and-paper houses; men and women in kimonos, glancing up as the train sped by. The strangeness of the country – and its beauty, especially in the pink, fading light of evening – disclosed itself to him as the journey proceeded. He had been born there, true enough. But he did not belong. And those who did paid him no heed.

  The only book about Japan he had found in the Perla’s library had told him Kyoto was the former capital, supplanted by Tokyo when the Emperor was restored to direct rule at the end of the Shogunate in 1868. The vagaries of the timetable meant he had several hours to wander its streets, marvelling at the abundance of temples, before resuming his journey. He reached Nagoya that night and experienced the unfamiliar but agreeable customs of a ryokan, communicated to him in mime by the smiling owner. Sharing a bath with two women who appeared amused by his embarrassment was only one of its novelties.